


in the palm of your hand

by firrehearrt



Series: 2021 prompt list [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clarke makes it to the ring, F/M, Pining, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:49:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29457765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firrehearrt/pseuds/firrehearrt
Summary: There's a void, without the end of the world dooming them. A void filled with his hand in hers.Or, Bellamy and Clarke getting time to justbe.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: 2021 prompt list [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2163708
Comments: 14
Kudos: 63





	in the palm of your hand

**Author's Note:**

> can't decide if I hate this or not so uh good luck with that. 
> 
> just a quick little writing exercise thing I'm trying out, based on [ this](https://firrehearrt.tumblr.com/post/642594002522259456) list of prompts, one for each week of the year. 
> 
> this week's prompt is palm
> 
> it's not quite midnight here, so happy valentines<3

“Are you doing alright?” Bellamy asks, leaning against a wall just a few feet away from her. She doesn’t turn from her cocoon of blankets, nestled against the window. She nods, though. 

Bellamy hums, taking another step towards her. No reaction. Step again. Nothing. He plops down next to her, letting out a sigh as he does. Nothing changes. Carefully, she sketches on the page in front of her. The dropship, he realizes. Kids mulled around, performing various tasks. “I didn’t realize you could draw,” he says, unabashedly staring over her shoulder. 

She huffs, marking down a rougher line. Clarke shakes her head, ripping out the paper then crumbling it up. She outlines a tent on the new page before responding. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.” There’s a hint of frustration there, and he can’t tell if it’s directed at him or not. 

It’s been hard, the last month they’ve spent up in the sky. The first week was rough, doing everything they could to get Clarke and Monty feeling better. Living off ration packs sucks after spending so long on the ground with fresh food. He feels… trapped, in a way. Freedom on such a level that they had before being torn from him hasn’t boded well, especially for Echo and Emori. 

They’re all grateful to be alive. But it’s been far from easy. 

They’ve all found different ways to cope. Echo trains, Raven and Monty throw themselves into running everything on the ring, Monty desperately trying to get the algae going in time before they run out of food. Harper flits around, helping where she can. Murphy’s angry, and Emori’s a ghost. 

But Clarke… she may as well not be here. And he can’t seem to reach her. 

It’s nothing he’s used to, nothing he’s ever experienced before. Even when she hated him, during those days she’s capturing so masterfully, they communicated better than this. But she’s retreated into herself, refusing to talk more than is necessary. This snide comment is the most he’s gotten from her all month. 

He’s run through it a thousand times. His first thought was that she assumed he was mad at her, for everything that had gone down in the bunker. But that was old news. Forgiven when she didn’t get to say goodbye to her mom, didn’t think she’d make it. Forgiven when panic overtook him inside the lab as he waited for her to come back to him. Forgiven the second he’d seen how sick she was. Little things like guns held up in the heat of the moment meant nothing when he almost lost her. A million other situations have run through his head, trying to explain this new woman in front of him. 

Nothing’s made sense.

He misses her. Most of all. She’s here, a step away from him pulling her into his arms, a reassurance that she’s right there. 

If he did that, would she flinch? Pull away? Do nothing? He can’t decide which would be worse. 

“There’s things you don’t know about me, too,” he offers softly. She tilts her head, another line marked down. He waits for a moment, and continues when she doesn’t say anything. “I split my lip open when I was a teenager. There was this girl in earth skills I was trying to impress, doing some stupid shit, I don’t remember.” He quirks an eyebrow, though she’s not looking at him. “Not worth it at all. I had to go to medical and get it patched up. Explain what had happened. I was so embarrassed, and my mom, she was furious. Wondering where I’d been.”

Nothing. 

“Did you know my mom was a tailor? Really talented, too. She taught Octavia and me.” He sighs. “I thought I could stitch really well, I’d gotten a lot of practice. But then I saw your stitches. And I was so mad, for a little bit, that you were so good at it and it was this thing that was supposed to be mine.” He shouldn’t be surprised, when she stays silent. But he is. “If you find anything up here you want I can mend it for you. If you’d like. You’ve been wearing the same stuff from the ground, I think. Or I could teach you. Whatever you want.”

She sniffles, dropping the charcoal piece and setting the sketchbook aside. “I’m going back to my room,” she says, collecting her things, quickly shuffling down the hall, away from him. 

And that’s the end of that. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“Clarke,” he calls, back of his hand on her door. She doesn’t respond, so with a grimace, he pulls the door open. She’s asleep in her bed, blonde hair spread around her, something like peace on her face. 

He’s loath to wake her up, when she looks better than she ever has in the time he’s known her. He drops the pack off on her desk, brushing a hand through the hair in her face. 

They’ll get through this, he thinks. If it takes all five years to get her back, it’ll be worth it. To have her back at his side. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

She’s back at her window the next day, wearing that same heavy expression that he would give anything to wipe away. Same sketchbook, same piece of charcoal. Same heartbroken woman. 

He takes a seat next to her, two books in hand. He doesn’t say anything as he leans against the wall facing her, opening up his first book he’d brought with him. “Can I read here?” He asks, eyes searching her face, for something, anything. He’d beg, at this point. For any bit of her he could get. She nods, and he could swear for a moment her eyes clear. 

They establish a routine for the day. Well, he establishes a routine. Read a page, stare at Clarke for a minute. Repeat. 

He’s pathetic, and well aware of it. But he can’t shake that soul shattering fear that she wouldn’t make it back here. Can’t shake the fact that his life may as well revolve around trying to keep her okay. Can’t shake the fact that he’s royally fucked that up. 

Slowly, he relaxes, his heart matching the patterns of her breathing. She’s here. She’s alive. They’re safe. And for the moment, they have peace.

He lets it be, today, letting the silence settle over them suppressing the urge to fill it. They spend the day like that, and the next. And the next. And the next, until he loses count. 

He swears he can’t remember what her voice sounds like, some days.

Just as he’s having one of those thoughts, she pipes up, eyes intensely focused on him. “I’m tired.” She says. 

Defeat, in her eyes, this time. Unlike the walls she’s held for so long now. He nods, moving towards her. 

“We’re safe now,” he assures, voice barely more than a murmur, but she shakes her head. 

“How many people aren’t?” A tear slips down her cheek, and he’s tempted to wipe it away, tempted to pull her into his lap and rock the demons away. 

“What do you mean?”

Another shake of her head. “All of the 100 that didn’t make it. Everyone in Mount Weather.” Her throat catches on a sob. “I failed so many people, Bellamy.” 

The first time she’s uttered his name since that moment in the lab. 

What once sounded like a prayer, a reason to live, holds nothing but despair now. 

“ _ We  _ did it together. You weren’t alone then, and you aren’t alone now.” She shakes her head, and his apprehension about touching her disappears as he grabs her hand in between his. “We’ll get through this, Clarke. The same way we got through everything else down there.”

Her hand is soft in his, too precious for his scarred, rough palms. But she lets him hold it, and somehow, that’s everything. 

Another sob escapes from her lips, and before he knows what’s happening, she’s collapsed in his arms, face buried in his chest. His arms fly up around her, pulling her more fully into him as he whispers reassurances in her ear. 

His beautiful, precious girl, holding the weight of the world for too long. 

For this moment, though, he can hold her. 

She quiets after a few minutes, her body relaxing into his. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, but doesn’t pull back. He runs a hand up and down her back, palm turned inward, rubbing in circles. 

“It’s alright,” he coos, urging comfort into every place they meet. “It’s gonna be alright Clarke.”

She nods, another sniffle. 

“Let’s go eat, alright?”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Things change, after that. Day by day, she opens up more. It starts with responding to him, turns into full sentences in response, and overnight morphs into her stories, however brief. Most of the time he shares, though, and he doesn’t mind. Some of the stories bring a semblance of a smile on her face. 

Her smile, he’s convinced, is a gift from some divine deity. In this world of pain and misery, that smile is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

He tells her about the myths his mother shared with him, tells her about his own childhood, tells her about Octavia. Things he’s never told anyone else, he realizes. 

He’s telling Clarke about O as a child, when she starts opening up. 

“I don’t know how I’m going to make it five years without my mom.”

Bellamy’s not a fan of Abby Griffin. Quite the opposite, honestly. But he puts that aside, and takes her hand. 

“I know.”

The corner of her lips tilt up in a sad smile. “You must miss Octavia.”

He squeezes her hand. “I miss…” he trails off, staring out the window in front of them, as though he might see her now. He loves his sister, but there’s relief in his chest where she’s concerned. Relief riddled with guilt, but relief nonetheless. “I miss her. And I’m worried about her. But something about having no control over anything no matter what I do is kind of nice.” She nods, pulling his hand into her lap, running her free finger over the back of his hand in invisible sketches. 

“I miss mom, but I don’t all the time. And I think that’s why it hurts so bad.” Her head drops in a groan. “I miss my dad more. And I feel guilty about that.”

He knows virtually nothing about her father, apart from her mother’s part in his death. He remembers the look on her face like it was yesterday, the utter betrayal and the revenge bright in her eyes. 

“You don’t need to feel bad about that.”

She huffs, “Easier said than done.”

Something he knows all too well. He chuckles. “It’ll get easier, princess.” The nickname slips from his tongue, without a second thought. But the look she gives him makes him wish he could take it back. He’s about to apologize, beg for forgiveness, when the confusion disappears from her face. 

“I miss those days.” And that’s another one of those heaven-sent smiles that he can’t quite get enough of. 

“We didn’t know how good we had it.” He offers, a teasing lilt to his tone. 

She shakes her head sadly. “No, no we didn’t.”

“Things are good now.” He swallows heavily.

Her eyelids drop. “Things are heavier now.” He squeezes her hand again, noting the way her face relaxes as he does. 

“We’ve got years to heal.” He suggests. 

She returns the squeeze, “But how long do we have down there before shit falls apart again?”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem,” he says with a smile. She shakes her head, a chuckle falling off her lips. 

“I guess it is.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Rationally, Bellamy knows Clarke being sick isn’t directly Monty’s fault, that he didn’t know better, that it would’ve happened to whoever tested it. But when she’s barely conscious and running an insane fever and throwing up on the rare occasion that she is awake, it’s hard to see that. 

Hence the reason Monty is staying far away from Bellamy, and by extension, Clarke, while she recovers.  _ If she recovers,  _ he can’t help thinking. 

But now's not the time for that. She’s asleep right now, breaths coming out shaky, sweat soaking her body. She’s been sick like this for two days. Everyone was frantic at first, not sure what to do, not that they know what they’re doing  _ now.  _ But Raven and Harper are reading through everything they can find in medical regarding her symptoms, and Bellamy’s stayed beside her, her hand clasped in his, his free hand running through her hair. 

And if he spends most of his time by her side begging for her to wake up, then that’s his business, and no one else’s. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Clarke recovers, rolling her eyes at Bellamy’s overprotectiveness. But she doesn’t let go of his hand as she lays in bed next to him, not uttering a word about their position. 

“I really feel fine now,” she insists, head pillowed on her hand, eyes boring into his. 

“And I’ve already told you need to wait until you haven’t thrown up for a full day before you go back to normal things.”

She rolls her eyes again, but drops it all the same. “Did you apologize to Monty?”

He glares at her. “I don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“You chewed his head off for something that he had no control over.”

“You were on the verge of death.”

She laughs, then, and it’s a glorious noise, even if it is at his expense. “It was food poisoning or something. Hardly a death worthy illness.”

“You didn’t see how bad you looked.” 

“You really know how to compliment a girl,” she says, tone leaking sarcasm

Lightly, he shoves at her shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

“All I heard was that I looked bad.”

The teasing continues, and her smile doesn’t fade. It’s a relatively good day. 

Who is he kidding? It’s possibly the best day of his life. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Monty figures out the algae, and despite it’s awful taste, they move over to that. Slowly, everyone grows more comfortable. He can’t help thinking it’s likely because of Clarke stepping up and insisting they spend more time together. They do weekly movie nights now, at her insistence. They rarely had the time for movies when he was on the Ark, and he doesn’t much prefer that kind of entertainment. But Clarke snuggles with him on the couch, absentmindedly playing with his hand as she watches. And her face is so adorably animated, that movie nights quickly grow to be his favorite night of the week. 

He tries not to think of the implications as she constantly reaches for his hand in the weeks that follow. Holds his hand as they walk from their rooms to the media room. Her hand in his as she draws, and on the rare occasion, as they eat. 

It makes sense, because those days are always her hardest. 

She just needs that comfort. And that’s fine. The last thing he needs to do now is make her uncomfortable with his feelings. 

He’s perfectly content to love her from afar, has long since made his peace with that. 

Until she reaches up and kisses him when they’re standing in front of their window. It takes him a moment to react, but then he realises she’s  _ kissing him,  _ and he’s pretty sure his heart is stopped even as he’s wrapping her arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. It’s the end and the beginning and everything good in this god forsaken world of theirs, as her lips reassure him of everything he wouldn’t let himself believe until now. 

_ She loves him. _

Clarke pulls back, just enough to find her own space, and she wears her brightest smile yet. This one, this is his favorite. 

“So we’re doing this, then?” She teases. He responds by capturing her lips with his. 


End file.
